


A Unique Set of Skills

by Jedi Buttercup (jedibuttercup)



Category: Escape Plan (2013), Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Jaeger Pilots, M/M, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-20 07:30:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15529257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedibuttercup/pseuds/Jedi%20Buttercup
Summary: "That explains the Jaeger.  It doesn't explainthese," Ray replied, fingering the papers again.  "I hate to break it to you, but we're at least two, if not three times the age range the PPDC's looking for."





	A Unique Set of Skills

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



> Written as a treat for RMSE 2018. I've been eyeing that "Pacific Rim fusion" like on your exchange letters for quite awhile; hopefully this attempt entertains! [Set post Escape Plan, but doesn't take into account Escape Plan II; I have yet to see the sequel.]

Ray Breslin slid onto the bench seat in the diner, shrugging back the hood of his parka. He'd been a lot of places in his time, but few of them colder than Kodiak Island, Alaska in the winter. Hell of a place for a meet-up, considering where he'd last seen the person who'd asked for the appointment.

"Mannheim," he said, jerking his chin at the man already seated on the other side of the table.

The infamous cyber anarchist was, perhaps not surprisingly, dressed in the same sort of functional gear Ray had chosen for the trip: a few cuts above the prison uniforms they'd been issued in the Tomb, but far shy of the well-cut suits and ties they could both afford due to their less than ordinary day jobs. Suited to the climate, but nothing that really stood out from the average tourist or off-duty PPDC employee that visited the kitschy restaurants in the area. He was groomed better than when Ray had last seen him, though: clean-shaven jaw, a touch of sun-bronze to the skin, a certain active energy to the glint in his eye. Whatever the problem was, it wasn't related to _his_ freedom this time.

"Breslin," Mannheim nodded back, then casually slid a manila envelope onto the table. "You've been remarkably difficult to track since you refocused your business. Helping the wrongfully imprisoned get _out_ , where once you made sure the rightfully imprisoned stayed _in_ , or so I hear."

Ray shrugged, cocking an amused eyebrow at him. "You sayin' you don't approve? Considering how we met in the first place?"

Mannheim's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Even out of the dull grey prison garb he still didn't look as smart as Ray knew him to be, built like a bodybuilder with broad shoulders, a blunt face, and the marked-up hands of a guy who'd spent most of his life using them. But it took one to know one, as the saying went; and as always, he looked right past the attitude to take Ray's question seriously.

"Not at all. Though I _do_ have to question if it's really the best use of your talents. Considering."

A quick jerk of his eyes toward the window and the glint of shifting waves visible in the distance filled in the rest of the sentence for him. Ray and the man he'd then known as Emil Rottmayer had broken out of the private prison ship they'd been trapped in off the coast of Morocco in November of 2012; a giant alien creature, bigger than skyscrapers and harder to stop than a hurricane, had emerged from the sea to wreck San Francisco less than nine months later. The beast had taken days to die, taking tens of thousands of people with it, and it hadn't been the last of its kind; one way or another, it seemed like half of humanity was caught up in the war against them these days.

"You'd think. But you can't lock up a kaiju, no matter how good your security is," Ray shrugged. "And in the meantime, an awful lot of people are getting _expedited_ through justice in the name of saving resources. Keeps me busy, anyway. So how 'bout you get to the point, and tell me what use _you_ have for my talents. 'Cause I distinctly remember you saying you hoped never to see me again."

Not that it was _bad_ to see him, exactly. Ray had usually made do with help from outside during his long career breaking out of prisons on behalf of the government, but that hadn't always been feasible. "Emil" wasn't the first time he'd worked with a fellow prisoner. He _was_ one of the very few, though, like Hush, that Ray had found common ground with. But circumstances being what they were, there were appearances to be maintained.

Mannheim's mouth curved in a grim smile. Ray had seen a lot of that smile in the Tomb after their first trip to the Box, when he'd discovered the full extent of what they were up against. It held a sharper edge without the salt-and-pepper chin fuzz to soften it. "That was when you were still a representative of law and order," he acknowledged. "I figured if I ever saw you again it would be from the inside of another cell, and unlike you, I'm not particularly fond of the décor. Times have changed, though." 

Mannheim paused for a moment there, throat working as he glanced back toward the distant view of the bay. "My daughter ... Jessica was in Cabo last year, on the first of June."

Ray's breath caught. Jessica might have been the one who got him sent to the Tomb in the first place, but she'd set the contract up legitimately; her main contributions had been his alias, and the strings she'd pulled to get him in. Les had been the one who'd seized on that contract as a way to have his cake and eat it, too: setting up the contact that didn't exist, giving him a spurious evacuation code, and putting a stop on the government's check just to add insult to injury. He couldn't resent _her_ for that.

She'd been bright, and ballsy, and a credit to her father. The idea of her having been in Cabo San Lucas on the same day Kaiceph had come ashore was dismaying enough, having met her only twice; he could only imagine how Mannheim had felt when he'd heard his daughter had been at ground zero. He'd received that call himself, once upon a time, without good news at the end of it. "Shit. Did she...."

"The security team got her out with only minor injuries," Mannheim replied, shaking his head, "but it was close enough that they were fleeing in its shadow. I lost half the men later to Kaiju Blue; it was sheer luck that she wasn't hit with it as well."

Ray had seen the pictures on the news; he rather doubted _out_ in this case meant _okay_. "That had to be fucking terrifying." For her _and_ for her father.

Mannheim grimaced. "She was one of the first at the CIA to volunteer for the testing, when the geneticists figured out how to tell if a person was Drift compatible."

Terrifying enough, in other words, for the contrary iron will she'd inherited from her father to kick in: to decide to roll the dice and take the chance provided her to strike back. Ray still failed to see how that had brought Mannheim to _him_ , though. Did he want him to break her out of the Jaeger Academy, or what? Somehow, he didn't think that would go all too well. If she was that much like her father, it was highly unlikely she'd cooperate if she really wanted to be there.

"I take it she was?" he asked, dryly.

The side-effects of the discovery of Drift compatibility had gone largely unreported in the rush to get pilots into Jaegers, but he'd read up on the subject during one of his lockups, and seen low-threat inmates pulled right out of prison due to their results. The ability to connect that deeply with another human being hadn't instantaneously generated in the human race due to the first Kaiju attack; in fact, it explained an awful lot about the way some people just spontaneously _clicked_ with no logical explanation, and how the myths about soulmates kept perpetuating despite modern discoveries about love and hormones and sexuality. The technological element just amplified an ability that already existed in a small percentage of people. Someone that good at getting professionally paranoid people to trust them at first meeting? Yeah, it was pretty much a given.

Mannheim nodded. "She has the genetic marker, and they found her a partner almost immediately. An eighty-eight percent match, or so she tells me; she's set to graduate in a few weeks. The CIA is _thrilled_ to have one of their own on the inside, given how loosely they've had to set the background checks in order to get enough cadets."

"...But not you?" Something still didn't feel right about that assumption, but he didn't have enough information to see what else his new friend could possibly be getting at.

Mannheim gave him an affronted look, then snorted. "I wouldn't have chosen it for her; but it's her life, it's her right to do it. Besides, if her connections were all that mattered to me, she's actually _better_ placed now than she was before. Read the file; that should clear a few things up for you."

Ray huffed an equally annoyed breath, then turned his attention to the envelope still on the table. He'd almost forgotten it was there, actually, engrossed in the familiar give and take of the conversation. He worked open the flap and pulled out a thin folder containing several sheets of cheap printer paper; the texture was unmistakable. It looked like someone had taken scans of a few official documents, then sent the .jpg files onward to be printed at some cybercafé or other–

"Hey," he said. "These are _my_ results." He shifted the top sheet aside, and stiffened as several things abruptly became clear to him. "And ... _yours_?"

"I suspected you might have been under when the government did the mass testing of their biggest captive audience ... and I figured you'd have signed the waiver. So Jessica did a little digging."

Under both sets of tests was a schematic: the specs for a massive metal structure several hundred feet tall, with a nuclear reactor for a heart, hydraulics for muscles, and a price tag in the twelve figures. "I wondered what you were up to when the banking system kept ticking on just the way it used to," he murmured, astonished by the scope of the plan as he flipped through the pages. "Hobbes and his buddies seemed to think you were planning to turn it all into confetti."

Mannheim shrugged. "Plans change. As long as saving the world requires this much money and labor, the existing hierarchies are a necessary evil. That doesn't mean I have to let them have it _all_ their way, though. The fat cats planning to sit the whole thing out safe and sound a continent away from immediate danger – well, they may have found themselves contributing unwittingly to the cause."

To the tune of the price tag for a whole Jaeger. The sharp-edged satisfaction in his tone had Ray shifting in his seat for reasons other than the sheer audacity of it, and Ray abruptly had a very clear vision of how the next few years were going to go, if Mannheim got his way. The thought was far more intriguing than it had any right to be. 

"That explains the Jaeger. It doesn't explain _these_ ," he replied, fingering the results again. "I hate to break it to you, but we're at least two, if not three times the age range the PPDC's looking for."

Mannheim grinned, obviously pleased Ray had picked up what he was putting down. "They didn't look too closely where the money came from; they needed it too badly. Badly enough to sign off on the sole requirement that they accept the pilot team the funding organization supplies, provided they manage to finish the training program. Unless you're saying you're not _up_ to it?"

Which was what, twenty-four weeks of intense physical and mental exercises? And that was _if_ Mannheim hadn't already figured out a way to test out of most of it. Please, Ray could eat that for breakfast. "I'm saying we're fucking old, _Victor_. We might be able to hack it now, but unless you've got a line on the fountain of youth, how many useful years are we really gonna have out there? There's a reason a lot of agencies have maximum acceptance ages."

The smug look faded back into the grim expression Mannheim had started out with, and he stared at Ray for a long moment. "You've seen what they're fighting. You've seen the statistics, and you can guess what's coming as well as I can."

Ray took a deep breath, then let it out. He'd been trying to avoid thinking about that ever since his puzzle-solving brain flagged him to what the PPDC spokespeople carefully weren't saying, but Mannheim wasn't wrong. "They're gonna start losing. And even when they don't – working around that much nuclear power isn't great for the pilots. The PPDC won't care as long as we meet the qualifications, because odds are we won't live long enough for it to matter."

He nodded. "I'll have my people keep funneling money to the Jaeger program. But I was in the Tomb in the first place because I won't sit back and watch the world go to hell when I have the tools to do something about it. I have a Jaeger now ... and you're the best tactician I know."

Ray then looked down at the table again, fisting his hands atop the imposing diagram as all the pros and cons of taking the offer flashed through his mind. They didn't look much like the hands of a prosecutor anymore, and hadn't for a long time: scarred knuckles, callused fingers, and thickly muscled forearms, the hands of a guy who had never been willing to sit back when presented with a problem any more than Mannheim. He thought about his on-again off-again thing with Abigail; she'd never forgive him if he did this, not that he'd ask her to. Then there was the job ... though Hush was pretty much ready to take over, there. And the few belongings he still kept in storage, or at the office at Breslin Ross ... well, what did he really need to keep with him? Pictures, mostly, and a few three-D puzzles to keep sharp.

But as for what he'd gain....

He swallowed, and looked back up at Mannheim, a reluctant grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. "So what you're saying is, I'm a tool, and you want to use me?"

Mannheim grinned back. "That's the idea. Even if you _are_ a lot of work."

"Speak for yourself," Ray snorted, amused. "Speaking of which – what am I supposed to call you?" Because it sure wouldn't be Mannheim; looser background checks or not, that name would send up a whole _forest_ of red flags.

"Oh, I don't know. I have a lot of aliases that haven't been flagged yet ... how do you feel about Trench Mauser?"

Ray didn't speak a lot of German, but he understood enough to get _that_ joke. " _Mauser_?" he objected, surprised into a laugh. "Sure, if you want people to make rodent references every time we're introduced."

Mannheim's grin widened. "Ray Owens?"

"Don't you think one Ray in this relationship is enough already? Seriously."

"John Matrix, then."

Ray rolled his eyes. "This is ridiculous. We might be living in a science fiction movie, but not _that_ kind of science fiction movie, and could you pick a more generic name than John?"

"All right, then; it'll just have to be Emil Rottmayer," Mannheim chuckled. "It's not as if I was arrested for anything other than being a connection to Mannheim, and I've already had a rumor spread that Mannheim was in Manila when Hundun came ashore. More insurance for my little funding project."

"Emil," Ray repeated, still smiling at him. "Yeah, I'd say that fits." He'd made the adjustment in his head before, but Emil would still come easier to the tongue than Victor anyway.

"Good," Mannheim – Rottmayer – said, extending a hand over the table. "Then let's go show them what this pair of 'fucking old' guys can do."

His grip was warm, and strong; and the closest thing, Ray figured, to an anchor he'd have in their new life.

Someday soon, he knew Abigail would ask him what the hell he'd been thinking. But the truth was, he wasn't really thinking at all; he was reacting, like he had when Jessica had asked him to go into the Tomb, like he had when the moment came that he had to choose between heading for the exit himself or going to do the task in the engine room that only he could do and trusting Rottmayer to be there to rescue him afterward. It was what it was.

 _Drift compatible_. Man, this was going to be a trip.

* * *

A little more than four years and several Kaiju later, Knifehead took down Gipsy Danger and one of the Becket brothers with her, just a few miles from where they'd been sitting in that diner. Just a few miles from where they'd stood that day, fencing off one of the Kaiju's other possible routes to Anchorage.

Ray met Emil's heavy gaze as they stepped back into their room, bruised with the exertion of standing ready in harness and still thrumming with the after-effects of Drifting.

Every year, it took longer to get their energy back after a fight. Every time quals came around, it took more effort to pass them. Every fight, it took every ounce of concentration to take one of the monsters down before it killed civilians. And even with the meds, he'd seen what had happened to Pentecost, and to Jessica's first partner – they were lucky neither of them, nor Emil's daughter, had been affected.

But they'd always beaten the odds, until today; Argent Victory was rated one of the deadliest Jaegers in the service for a reason. Ray swallowed, and arched his neck as Emil pushed him back against the door, pressing his forehead against Ray's as they rooted themselves against the solid steel.

"It's started," he said, heavily.

Quicksilver plans flashed in the back of their thoughts: his, Emil's, it was hard to tell these days after all the time they'd spent meshing minds. His tended to be a little more technically detailed, Emil's a little more focused on others' reactions; that was one of the few ways to tell them apart. It was just calculations this time, though: the inevitably mismatched curve of ever-more-deadly Kaiju against ever-more-worn pilots, equipment, and general human morale.

There were a number of things Emil could have said in response; a number of things he _had_ said before, one time or another. But like a prison escape, every way out of the situation they were in boiled down to just three things. Knowing the layout – which no one had yet figured out, given that the Breach rejected every attempt to map or penetrate it; understanding the routine – which was also shot, since aside from the fact that times between Kaiju attacks were gradually decreasing, they followed no predictable pattern; and help from outside or in. Outside wasn't working; even with Mannheim's organization funneling money in, alternative projects like the useless Wall of Life were starting to suck attention away.

No evacuation code. A foe they couldn't influence or predict. Two aging men who spent too much time in drivesuits that made them look like sexagenarian comic book characters. All that was left to them was this: each other. All they could hope for was that that would be enough.

"But we _will_ help finish it. One way or another," Emil promised, roughly. Then he reached to cup Ray's face, fingers snagging in helmet-shaggy hair.

The hours in the rig had left them too sore for anything athletic, but the left-over adrenaline and oxytocin from the Drift weren't going anywhere; Ray tugged Emil's tee shirt out of his uniform trousers with exhaustion-shaky fingers as Emil tried to meld them together again mouths-first. Hands that had once delivered heavy punches moved to work at his zipper; a hoarse voice murmured broken German that he understood much better now than when he'd overheard Rottmayer ranting at a corrupt prison warden. Heat and friction and sweat-slicked skin moving between them lit more a low-flickering fire than the quick molten surge younger men might have experienced – but that was all right; it was enough, more than enough, to take care of business.

He grunted and shuddered against his partner; then he sighed and slumped back against the door again as Emil followed. "Shower?" he asked, hoarsely.

Emil pulled back and reached for one of yesterday's towels, crumpled on the floor, for a preliminary cleanup. "Shower, then the mess. One more day."

Ray sighed, and pulled himself back together. "One more day."


End file.
